


You've Got a Face with a View

by Catwithamauser



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:57:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8113735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catwithamauser/pseuds/Catwithamauser
Summary: Frank and Laurel carve out some time around Laurel's finals Or, Laurel convinces Frank to watch telenovelas





	1. Home is Where I Want to Be

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to move away from writing all angst all the time, so here's a nice little semi-fluffy two-shot without any semblance of plot.  
> With that being said, probably gonna move back to super-angst after this one tho, y'all have been warned...  
> But for now let's just pretend the worst thing these nerds have to worry about is where to go for takeout.

Frank hears something playing on the TV in the bedroom as he steps into the apartment, running a hand tiredly across his face. Laurel must be exhausted, he thinks, more exhausted than he is if she’s quit studying this early in favor of Netflix. It's only about 8:30 after all and finals are next week and he’s been through finals week with her twice now and knows that she’s usually got another couple of hours before she even thinks about wandering, bleary-eyed and stiff, into the kitchen looking for food to take the edge off her caffeine high.

“Hey,” he calls, shucking off his shoes by the door and loosening his tie. “I picked up Indian. Figured you hadn't eaten yet.”

He doesn't hear much of a response, figures Laurel’s probably fallen asleep, sprawled loose-limbed and ragged, her textbooks strewn like shrapnel around her, thinks she could probably use the extra sleep even if she winds up waking with knotted muscles and streaks of pen across her face that he’ll laugh at later as he kisses each of them in turn.

Frank sets the bags of takeout on the kitchen counter, wanders into his bedroom with every intention of shutting off the TV, removing as many textbooks as possible and trying to pull the comforter over Laurel’s shoulders without waking her. He pads into the bedroom but finds her awake instead, eyes glued to what he decides is her Admin Law text, chewing on the end of her pen, her brows furrowed in a way that makes something clench in his chest, something tight with desire and affection. He loves her, even distracted and exhausted, her hair messy and loose and wearing one of his old flannel shirts and a pair of sinfully tight shorts, the skin around her eyes dark like a bruise and her hands mottled with ink. He loves her, without qualification, loves her so much it still sometimes sneaks up on him, makes his heart stutter and trip, his breath catch.

“Hey,” he calls again, louder this time, over the noise of whatever’s playing on the TV, ignored by Laurel.

She looks up, blinks at him slowly as though it takes a long moment for her brain to process more than decisions about presidential power and state’s rights, for it to register his presence. But then her eyes clear, like the sun suddenly emerging from shadow and she smiles, warm and sweet, pushes her hair back from her face as she does. “Hi. I didn't hear you come in.”

“Brought Indian,” he tells her, feeling like he’s repeating himself, but knowing she didn't hear him the first time. “Smart money says you haven't eaten.”

Her grin grows wider, but she glances down, glances at the textbooks and notebooks and pens and her computer sprawled around her on the bed, at the three empty coffee mugs sitting on the nightstand, looks away and looks a little guilty at the mess. “Haven't really made it there yet.”

He pulls off his tie, approaches the bed and leans down to kiss her. Laurel reaches a hand up, strokes it through his beard as their lips meet, fingers scratching gently across his cheek. “How’s studying going?” he murmurs against her mouth.

She huffs, shrugs. “It’s going.”

Frank chuckles as he stands, pulls off his waistcoat and dress shirt, pulls on a wife beater. “You up for moving this party to the kitchen so we can eat?”

Laurel hums. “I guess. I was getting into a groove I think.”

He glances at the TV, still blaring. “Yeah,” he says, flashing her a crooked grin. “Sure seems like you weren’t Netflixing at all.”

She laughs, rolls her eyes at him. “That’s for background noise.”

“The hell is it anyway?” he asks, because as loud as the TV is, he hasn't been able to pick anything up. As he turns his attention more to whatever’s playing, he realizes it's not even English the characters are speaking, recognizes the cadence and tone of Spanish though Frank can’t begin to guess at what they’re saying. He’s shit at Spanish, still, despite Laurel’s best efforts to teach him.

She gives him another guilty grin, sharp though her eyes dart away. “Telenovela. It's easy to tune it out.”

He raises his eyebrows at her. “Seriously?”

Laurel shrugs. “I’m studying in English, the TV’s in Spanish. It's kind of like,” she pauses, gives a quick little laugh as though embarrassed by what she’s going to tell him, lets her shoulders hitch practically up to her ears. “I can understand it, sure, but I don’t pay attention to it. Like it doesn't intrude on the English I’m reading or trying to process.”

He’s sure his eyebrows raise higher as someone gets slapped on the TV. “I’ll believe you I guess.”

“Don't be so skeptical,” she tells him, rolling her eyes at him again. “It's silly and kind of dumb, but do I really want to be watching _Citizen Kane_ while I study?”

“You can't watch the news?” he asks her. “Or sports or something?”

“Too much English,” she tells him, reaching through the pile of cluttered papers on the bed, searching through them for the remote. She comes up with it eventually, under a thick stack of papers binder clipped together, lifts it up with a triumphant grin. “The Spanish doesn't intrude.”

Frank laughs. “Explain it to me once we’ve eaten. Because I’m not getting it right now.”

She huffs, pauses the TV and stands, stretching long and wide, shoulders popping softly and the hem of her shirt riding up, up until it bears the smooth planes of her soft stomach, until he stares, transfixed by the skin there. “Stop ogling,” she chides, though her grin is light and teasing.

“Can’t help it,” he growls, reaching out, hand gliding to her hip, stroking along the bared skin. His lips find the sensitive spot behind her ear, teeth nipping softly until she sighs, body unfurling against his and he feels most of the tension leaving her.

“Can too,” she mumbles, but she laughs, light and quick as they both hear her breath hitch.

He nips against her neck, once more, but steps away. They need to eat and he knows it, can practically feel his stomach clenching, growling.

“You went to Saravana?” she asks, grabbing her laptop off the bed and stepping around him. She looks up at him, a question in her glance. A loaded one, Frank thinks. Laurel loves Saravana, but Frank is eternally committed to the little café three blocks away that always gives him free naan. “Or Bombay Café?”

He grins wide as he trails after her, knows she can’t see but can’t help himself. “Saravana,” he tells her. “It’s finals week.”

Laurel hazards a quick glance over her shoulder, smiles softly at him as she sets her laptop down on the table. He wants to ask if she’s intending to study during dinner, wants to say something, address the hurt he feels blooming in his chest before he can help it; that she’s going to ignore him completely, go back to her textbooks and outlines and sink beneath the surface with hardly more than a glance.

He’s not sure he should though, feels unexpectedly like he’s walking out onto ice he’s not sure the depth of, the sturdiness of, not sure he won't find himself in the middle of a fight he wasn't expecting. Finals make Laurel stressed and impatient and not always kind, and she doesn't always want to talk about things, talk things through, because well, finals also make her greedy about her time and if it's not about studying, about case law and outlines, she doesn't always care. Frank thinks sometimes that it's as thought she puts every bit of extraneous information away in a time capsule, marked ‘not to be opened until after finals’ and forgets about it, thinks this means that sometimes she forgets that Frank exists, that either of them have feelings that can be hurt, that ebb and flow with affection, that it's not possible to simply ignore him for a week and expect things to be the same when she comes up for air.

He thinks she knows this, just sometimes she forgets and half expects Laurel to just nod, hum, and tear into the food, her eyes dulled by thoughts that still linger on details from the Congressional Record.

Instead she half closes the laptop, slowly, pointedly, like she senses his thoughts, turns away from it and turns back to him, her gaze clear.

“Thank you,” she says then, eyes going soft, because she knows he didn't have to go to Saravana, would normally put up at least a token protest about it. But not this week, and not the next; not when Laurel’s already stressed and frayed, worn thin.

He reaches out and takes her hand for a moment, some of the dull hurt easing as it becomes clear she is going to have dinner with him, just him and not him and her outlines. He gets it, he does, finals are fucking important, and Laurel is always, always prepared, but that doesn't mean he likes it, likes the strange creature she becomes for two weeks. “Figured I should do what I can to keep you alive.”

She gives him a long eye roll and a sharp bark of laughter. “I think I can survive on just coffee for the next few days.”

“That so, huh?” Frank asks, going to the cabinets and grabbing a couple of plates for them. “So it's cool if I take all the samosas?”

“No way,” she tells him, fixing him with a glare as she grabs one from the bag of takeout, bites off half of it. “Should’ve eaten some before you got home.”

Her eyes soften though and she steps forward, offers him the other half of the samosa with a slanted smile. He takes it, bites it out of her hand and laughs as Laurel kisses his jaw. “Thanks.”

She takes the plates from Frank’s hands and begins to dish up curry and rice.

“How long until you start itching to study again?” he asks, grabbing a beer from the fridge and cracking it, knowing enough not to try and tempt Laurel with one.

She shrugs. “Twenty minutes maybe.”

Frank frowns, tries to disguise it by taking a long sip of beer. He hates finals week, hates how Laurel turns deep inside herself, forgets everything and everything beyond studying; forgets to eat and shower and sometimes even forgets to speak.

“Give me an hour,” he says, sounds like he’s pleading rather than demanding. “Then I won't bother you all night. Not even if I wake up at 4:00 and you’re still studying.”

“I’ll stop by 3:00,” she promises, shooting a quick little grin from the corner of her mouth. “Maybe 3:30.”

“Liar,” he tells her, but there’s little heat behind his words.

She grins again, confirms the lie. “Come watch the telenovela with me,” she offers after a moment, eyebrows pulling together as she thinks. “That’ll be an hour.”

Frank rolls his eyes, groans. “That’s your offer?”

She shrugs, mouth quirking and offers him one of the plates. “Yup.”

He groans again as he takes it, but he knows she knows he won’t resist her. He never resists her, doesn't know if he even _can_.

“Fine,” he grumbles, but doesn't really mind.

He’ll do whatever it takes to spend time, spend _more_ time with her, especially now when she barely has time to look at him let alone speak to him, touch him, curl up beside him and ease her body into his. He’ll take what he can get, and she knows it.

It's not easy, it's never been easy between them, but Laurel’s made herself remarkably good at making sure they take a few minutes together at least, every day, making sure that they don't drift apart with all the thousand of things competing for their time, their attention. It's work sometimes, and sometimes it's tough to remember that they can’t just get by on sheer desire, and sometimes Laurel closes herself off, forgets Frank entirely, but they find their footing eventually, and eventually finals week ends and Laurel surfaces and her stress eases and they find themselves, find each other again.

It helps, Frank thinks, that sometime like craving, like desperation arcs between them, that they’ve been pulled together from the start, can barely resist each other at the best of times. It helps because neither of them can be too long without the other; even in the depths of finals week Laurel will suddenly surface and come to him, bleary eyed and stumbling and they’ll steal a few hours back for themselves.

“You’ll like it, I promise,” Laurel assures him, plucking a piece of naan off his plate, completely ignoring the dark look he shoots her.

He makes a little scoffing noise around a forkful of curry.

She gets a skeptical look, challenge in her bright blue eyes and hums thoughtfully. “If you hate it,” she offers. “I’ll come to bed before 2:00.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

She nods. “Promise. But you're gonna love it. I promise that too.”

“Fine,” he growls. “Put it on. I’ll give it a chance.”

“I won't even try to study,” she offers. “You’ve got all my attention.”

Frank laughs, doesn't bother to point out that she’s likely to be running through case law and holdings and hypotheticals with the half her of her brain that isn't focused on the show, leaving practically nothing left to devote to him. He thinks it doesn't need to be said, they both know it's true, probably both know he’s thinking it. “Ok, ok,” he says. “Turn it on and even if I hate it, I can spend the hour trying to get into your pants.”

Laurel chuckles, even as her eyes roll, and she leans forward and kisses him, swift and sweet and when they break apart her eyes have this intense, focused quality to them, like she’s suddenly turned the entirety of her attention to Frank and Frank alone, focused on him so intently it's like a spotlight, like a magnet, she barely even blinks. “Finals’ll be over soon,” she tells him, voice like an apology, like a promise. “And I’ve got ten days after that till my summer associate job starts. I’ll be spending so much time with you you’re gonna get sick of me.”

“Impossible,” he tells her, wrapping his hand around her wrist, tugging her towards the couch, laughing as Laurel resists for a moment while she grabs her laptop from the table.

“We’ll see about that,” she says as a wry grin splits her face, but then it slips to something shy, something pleased, and she leans over and kisses him, light and quick. A laugh bubbles up out of her chest as he catches her elbow, tugs her back to him, kisses the little streak of blue ink on her cheek, then the one that curves along the path of her right eyebrow. “Just think though, if you like the telenovela, we can binge watch it that whole week I have off.”

Frank groans, flops his head back against the back of the couch, tries to smother the smile that creeps onto his face. He’d never admit it, and doesn't need to cause he think Laurel knows it already, but he honestly can't think of anything he’d rather do than spend time with her, even doing something as simple as watching TV. He’s in love with her, craves her, always; it's that simple.

He thinks though, as Laurel sighs happily, lets her eyes slip closed for a second, lets her body curl into his, head warm against his shoulder, her hair fanning against his neck, his chest and her hand settling soft against his thigh, as he feels the tension, the stiffness slip from her body, as Laurel becomes something smooth and liquid the longer her body lingers against his, that she might just feel the same way, might just be in love with him in the same yearning, boundless, unending way he’s in love with her, and that maybe he’s the luckiest man alive if she feels even half of what he feels for her.

“This had better be one hell of a show,” he tells her then, teasing, because he doesn't feel the need to tell her anymore, tell her how much he craves her, how much better his life is with her in it. There’s no need to tell her because she already knows, can read it in his face, Frank thinks, every time he looks at her.

Laurel hums, presses her lips into the place where his shoulder meets his neck, and Frank feels her smile softly against his skin. “It's not bad,” she assures him. “Just watch.”

He sighs, smooths his thumb across the back of the hand that still rests, soft, against his thigh. “You know I’m not gonna understand a damn thing.”

Her smile against his shoulder grows wide, wider and she huffs, breath fanning warm against him before she presses another kiss to the skin of his shoulder. “That's ok,” she murmurs, letting her tone match his, gentle and teasing and still heavy with something Frank decides is affection. “I’m willing to translate. You love when I translate.”

Frank’s lips press against her forehead, the wispy little hairs around her temple. “I love having an excuse to stare at your mouth,” he clarifies, grin going crooked. “I’m kind of obsessed with your lips.”

He can feel her roll her eyes, lets her hand slide higher up his thigh until Frank hisses low and harsh as desire sparks through him. “Really?” she teases, teeth nipping at his neck. “Just my lips?”

“Hell no,” he tells her, trying to control his breathing, set his voice into something that doesn't sound raw, stuttering. “I’m obsessed with pretty much everything about you.”

Laurel laughs so low he can only feel the vibration of it, like an echo, like the rumblings of an earthquake. “I love you too, you know,” she says. “Even when I don't say it enough, or when I sucker you into indulging my TV guilty pleasures.”

“I know,” Frank replies, sliding forward and hitting the play button on Laurel’s laptop. “Of course I know. I wouldn't let you sucker me into this if I didn't think you loved me as much as I love you.”

She huffs again, breath fanning in a little puff against his neck. “You mean if you didn't think there was a chance it’d lead to maybe getting lucky.”

He settles back beside her on the couch, lets Laurel lean against his side again, close and soft and familiar, lets her hand go back to his knee as he wraps an arm around her shoulder, pressing her closer. “Isn't that what I said?”


	2. This Must Be the Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, after these past couple of eps, fluff is the only choice. Embrace the fluff.  
> The telenovela here is not real, fyi...

It's ten days later and Laurel has only a paper left to finish for her seminar on the Supreme Court before she’s done with finals for the year. She’s been revising it pretty much non-stop for the past two days, finished writing it the day before, though Frank isn't honestly sure she’s ever really going to think it’s done.

She’s taken to reading him whole paragraphs out loud, settled beside him in bed, her laptop across her knees and throwing a strange, hollow glow across her face, asking him questions as he’s drowsy and half asleep and barely able to answer with more than a grunt. ‘Would it be ok if I said that the _Korematsu_ decision was disastrous or is that too dramatic?’ ‘Am I being clear enough in my comparisons to _Dred Scott_?’

But it's due tomorrow at 9:00 and he’s hoping she doesn't spend the entire night obsessing and tweaking and instead winds up at least content with what he feels is already a pretty damn good paper. But then again, what does he know?

Frank knocks the door open with his hip, arms filled with grocery bags, fully expecting to receive no more than a distracted glance from Laurel from where she’s set up shop on the couch.

Instead, she’s in the kitchen, turns when she hears Frank enter, her eyes sparking with something that matches the small smile she gives him when her eyes light on his.

“You’re home early,” she tells him, grabbing the bags from his left hand, her right hand going to his forearm and smoothing over the skin there, slow and soft.

“Case settled,” Frank says by way of explanation, following her back into the kitchen. “Annalise let us take the evening.”

If anything her smile stretches wider until he can see her eyeteeth. “I’m glad.”

“I picked up some pecans like you asked,” he tells her, setting the bags on the counter and beginning to unload them.

Laurel hums. “Perfect,” she says. “I want to make some brownies to take over to your mom’s on Sunday.”

Frank smirks, rolls his eyes. “You don't need to bring something every time.”

She gives him a pointed look. “I do. It's called manners.”

His eyes roll again. “Fine, fine.”

He unloads the cold items from the bags first, arranges them in the fridge while Laurel stocks the cupboards, the two of them dancing around each other easily, fluidly in the small kitchen as they put the food away. It's both strange and familiar how comfortable they can be with each other, how aware of the other’s body, like they’re going through the steps of some complicated dance Frank’s never been taught but knows, instinctively and by heart; memorizing each other’s bodies, their glances. It's both wonderful and terrifying and Frank doesn't think he’d trade it for anything in the world.

“I was thinking leftover stuffed peppers for dinner, yeah?” she asks as they get close to finished putting things away. “And I’ll take an hour or two before finishing this paper up?”

“Sounds good,” Frank nods.

“Oh,” she says then, eyes lighting up with something he’d swear looks a lot like laughter. “I got a package from my sister.”

“Yeah?” Frank asks, because a package from the sister Laurel rarely speaks to can only mean one thing. “She come through?”

Laurel nods, grins, her look now teasing and sharp. “She did indeed.”

She heads towards the little side table where they keep their mail, grabs a fat manilla mailing envelope and holds it up triumphantly, smirking at Frank the whole time.

“Thank god for Diana,” Frank tries to smother his grin into something neutral, fails. “I need my fix. And Gloria told me the next episode is pretty nuts.”

She turns to look at him, eyes narrowed slightly. “Gloria the court reporter?” she asks, sounding a little surprised as she passes him the envelope with the disk containing the back half of the telenovela’s episodes.

He nods, smirks a little. “We were sitting around waiting while everyone was in chambers. She asked what you were up to and I told her you were busy with finals and getting me hooked on telenovelas.”

Laurel laughs, the sound a sharp bark. “What’d she have to say about your new addiction?”

He catches her hip with his free hand, tugs her close and smooths a hand across her back, tangling in the long strands of her hair. “Told me if I’m into this one, you should have me watch one about this lady drug kingpin or something next.”

Laurel grins, her arm running across his bicep as she leans up, kisses him softly, softer than he’d been expecting, almost tenderly and any more words catch against something tight that forms deep in his chest. “Gloria’s got taste,” she says, nodding thoughtfully. “That's a good suggestion.”

“She was trying not to spoil anything but she did tell me Luca doesn’t get his head out of his ass for a while,” Frank continues with a frown. “What does that mean? I thought he was gonna go apologize to Isa?”

“There’s a ton of episodes left Frank,” she tells him with a smirk, a roll of her eyes, kissing him swiftly, smiling against his lips.

“Luca’s gonna be an idiot for a while yet. And then it’ll be Isabelle’s turn.”

“Spoilers,” he groans, before nipping at her jaw, the space behind her ear. “And she’s supposed to be the smart one.”

Laurel’s hand goes to his hair, strokes through the short strands so she can keep his lips against her skin. “She’s not being dumb, she’s just gonna have bad information. It's a soap opera remember, no one acts _smart_.”

“There’s gonna be a bunch of episodes where they’re both sad because they refuse to talk, huh?”

She nods, steps away from him. “Of course.”

He watches as she goes to the fridge, begins pulling the leftover peppers out and placing them against the counter. “We should’ve stuck to _Mad Men_ ,” he grumbles. “At least with _Mad Men_ there’s no one I root for.”

Laurel continues to pull items from the fridge, her back to him, but he knows she rolls her eyes. “Liar,” she tells him affectionately. “You root for Joan.”

“Peggy too,” he points out as she turns back around.

She nods. “True. You love Peggy too. Softie.”

“Am I gonna have to stop rooting for Luca and Isa?”

Laurel shrugs a little too casually and he knows the show is probably in for a rough ride. “I dunno,” she tells him, not meeting his eyes. “They’re gonna get pretty dumb.”

He chuckles lowly. “As long as you don't forget to translate because you’re too busy making fun of them.”

Laurel gives him a mulish look because they both know she will the second the characters start acting like characters in, well, a telenovela. For someone who claims to really like telenovelas, she’s pretty impatient with them, constantly complains about the characters and the unbelievable plots. He loves it, loves how frustrated she gets, despite knowing exactly what's likely to occur in the overly dramatized world of Mexican soaps. Laurel leans back against the counter, arms crossed over her chest a little smile playing around her lips. “I can do both. I’m great at multitasking.”

“You made me miss the big, dramatic breakup scene because you were too busy listing all the ways it could have been avoided if the characters had had anything approaching common sense,” he points out.

He won't admit it out loud, though Frank thinks she knows, that he didn't really mind it; he loves the show, much as he was reluctant to admit _that_ at first, but he loves spending time with Laurel more. He loves hearing her translate for him, the way she sometimes so carefully stops and pauses and bites her lower lip as she thinks of the perfect word in English to convey what the characters are saying because she thinks it's important, thinks that it's crucial Frank understand exactly what is occurring because she loves him and thinks that _he’s_ important, even if the show itself isn't. He loves the way she tries hard not to roll her eyes, scoff, laugh when the characters do something stupid, tries her hardest not to look over at Frank and say something snarky because she knows how much he’s actually gotten invested in the show, how she tries to be kind about the show because Frank genuinely likes it and Laurel sees it instead as a sometimes amusing guilty pleasure.

“I’ll behave for the next breakup,” Laurel assures him, flashing him a crooked smile, “Because there's gonna be like three more before the show’s over.”

“Spoilers,” he groans again. Laurel is forever casually dropping spoilers; partially, he thinks, because she doesn't even think of them as spoilers. As someone who was practically raised on telenovelas, Laurel assumes that breakups and missed encounters and quickly resolved tragedy are to be assumed, that they’re not spoilers because everyone knows they’re coming, would be surprised if they didn't occur once every episode or so.

Frank, who isn't usually much of a TV watcher, and is kind of a snob when he does watch, probably wouldn't know TV tropes if his life depended on it, so when Laurel assumes he’s anticipating another breakup or a dramatic fight scene at dinner, well, he’s usually not. And he kind of hates getting spoiled.

He stalks towards Laurel, hands coming to rest on either side of her on the countertops, framing her body, her hips, with his own, a dangerous look in his eyes, in the slanted cast of his mouth. Laurel grins as he gets close, as she feels his body, heavy and solid against hers.

“There's a bunch of eps left,” Laurel says, giving him a look that Frank can only interpret as deliberately teasing, confrontational, her voice light but her eyes flashing, fixing heavily on his. “You can't have expected things to go smoothly that whole time.”

“Quit trying to tell me what's gonna happen,” Frank growls, leaning closer towards her, towering over her and forcing Laurel to lean back slightly if she wants to continue to meet his eyes. He catches the way her breath hitches, the way her eyes drop to his mouth, the way she swallows thickly. “I wanna be surprised.”

She laughs quickly, airy, breathless. “You're gonna be plenty surprised, believe me.”

“Not if you keep telling me about breakups and fights,” he says, skimming his fingers up the smooth skin of her wrists.

“Hey,” she breathes out as Frank’s beard runs along the soft, thin skin of her neck, his teeth, his lips following that path.

“Can't order me around Frank, you need me to translate.”

He chuckles darkly against her skin. “I’m sure I can find subtitles somewhere.”

She scoffs, though when Frank presses his lips against her pulse point the sound goes high and breaks, turns breathy. “But you won't have as much fun with subtitles.”

“No,” he agrees as he kisses her, slow and deep. “There’s definitely something to be said about you translating.”

“You better start learning some Spanish though,” Laurel chides, tugging on his tie, tugging him closer to her, her other hand sliding into his hair. “Especially if you’re gonna start watching more than just this one show. Translating’s harder than it looks.”

He chuckles against her skin, pressing his lips to the space between her eyes. “I know,” he mumbles. “You always get this little crease right here, when you’re thinking really hard about what word to use and your eyes narrow and get super focused. Sometimes you bite your lip. It's cute.”

She frowns. “It's not cute,” she grumbles, frowning and her eyebrows draw together in exactly the look he finds so adorable.

“It is,” he insists, grinning at her and nipping at her lower lip. “Its super cute and I love it. I love you.”

She kisses him, but when they pull away she’s still frowning, though there’s something teasing in the slant of her mouth. “I’m gonna find you a Spanish-English dictionary and leave you to it if you keep calling me cute.”

“You’re very intimidating and serious and nothing about your translations make me laugh. Ever,” he tells her, voice going flat and his expression stony, though he walks his fingers up her sides, slow and teasing.

Laurel rolls her eyes, laughs, though the sound is breathy and quick as Frank’s hands slide against her ribs. “You're right, I am damn intimidating.”

He nods, smirking. “Truly terrifying. But cute.”

Laurel tugs his tie again, kisses him swiftly. “Good enough. Grate me some cheese and I’ll whip up some intimidating and adorable rice.”

“You able to focus if I turn the show on?” Frank asks, grabbing a block of cheese from the fridge and pulling out the grater.

“Addict,” Laurel teases, quickly handing him a knife as she knocks his shoulder with her own. “Good thing you don't know Spanish or I’d get home one day to find you dead on the couch with the show still playing.”

“Nah,” he tells her wryly. “I wouldn't let myself die before I finished it up.”

“Like I said,” she quips. “Addicted.”

“If I’m an addict, you’re a pusher,” he tells her.

She laughs as she turns the oven on to reheat their leftovers, standing and pushing the long strands of her hair away from her face. “Get you addicted, that's my goal. Then force you to lean Spanish.”

“Honestly,” he tells her as he begins to grate the cheese, watching as she scoops out rice into the rice cooker ladles water in after it. “I think it might be working. The guy down at the corner store, Ray; I eavesdropped on his conversation the other day. Almost understood some of it.”

Laurel grins, comes up behind Frank and drapes her body against his, one arm winding around his waist as she places a kiss to his spine before turning to rest her cheek along his back. Her hand rucks up his shirt, tugging it out of his waistband before she slips her fingers, feather light and warm, against the planes of his stomach until he shudders with building want. She peppers kisses along his shoulder blades, sighs into his skin. “That's because all he does is curse.”

Frank chuckles, sets down the block of cheese and the grater, and turns so that he’s facing Laurel. His arms come up around her, clasped together across the delicate span of her back as he presses her body into his. “That’d do it then I suppose,” he mumbles into her hair.

“How is it you taught yourself Italian to speak to your grandma and you’re so bad at Spanish?” she presses her chin into his chest, looks up at him with her wide blue eyes. She doesn't look angry or insulted, just curious.

“Dunno,” he answers honestly. “I think it's cause I heard it so often growing up. It musta seeped into my brain or something.”

He feels her grin, yawn tiredly, wide and bracing. “Must’ve,” she agrees.

They stand there like that, tangled together, for long moments until the oven timer dings, Laurel’s face resting gently against his chest as Frank’s hands slip into her hair. He can feel her breath fan across his skin, feels how her breathing syncs up to his own slow exhales, until he thinks they might be one creature, hearts beating in unison as Frank’s arms press her closer. He can feel the tension, the stress of the day slide off him, slip from his shoulders the longer she remains in his arms. He doesn't know how she does it, what it is about her and him and them that just sets him calm when he’s near her, but it's like all his worries, all his stress fade into the background, fade in importance when he’s with her. When she’s in his arms, Frank thinks, the only thing that matters is her.

“Lemme go stick the peppers in,” Laurel mumbles, though she makes no move to step out of the circle of his arms.

“It can wait,” he tells her, tucking a strand of long brown hair behind her ear, running his thumb across the sharpness of her jaw. He doesn't want to let her go yet, not ever, not when they’ve spent the past two weeks catching stolen moments, quick minutes together when Frank isn't working and Laurel can tear herself away from her books. He feels like they haven't been still, haven't been able to stop, to breathe, to really be together since finals began. “I've missed you.”

“I haven't gone anywhere,” Laurel says, brow furrowing as she frowns softly up at him.

“Yeah,” Frank insists softly. “You have. It's finals week, and I get it, but we’ve kinda been missing each other the past couple of weeks.”

She hums, raises her head to look up at him, still frowning, something he decides is sadness, is exhaustion in her eyes.

“You're right. I’m sorry, finals make me a little crazy.”

“I’ve been busy too,” he says. “It's been a shitty couple of weeks.”

“I missed you too,” Laurel admits. “I haven't had much time to think about anything other than exams, but I’ve missed you. An hour a night while I shovel food in doesn't really count.”

“You know that's originally why I was watching telenovelas with you?” Frank asks, raising his eyebrows at her. “Just so I could steal a few minutes together.”

She smiles, small and tentative, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and chaste. “Yeah,” she smirks. “I did. But I also know it grew on you. And you totally not so secretly love it now.”

“That's true,” Frank tells her. “But I love you more.”

She kisses him again, soft and slow. “I’m really glad you liked it though. I’m really glad you gave me an excuse to stop studying and pay attention to you.”

“Had to come up with something that would get your nose out of your textbooks,” he says, nipping at her lower lip until Laurel hisses.

“Coulda just gotten naked,” she whispers against his mouth as he soothes the heated flesh, her hands once again tugging at his tie, the edges of his shirt.

Frank laughs sharply. It's a good thought, and one he’d normally be more than willing to try, except a stressed Laurel is not always a horny Laurel. And, if Frank’s being completely honest, what he’s missed the most is just having small, unimportant, moments with her; staring at her in the warm, sweet light of the morning as she sips coffee before they leave for the day, finding Laurel on Annalise’s doorstep with dinner for him and Bonnie and Annalise, grinning wide and rolling her eyes when he asks if she brought burgers, wandering through the farmer’s market on Sundays, arguing over which berries are freshest, whether they should buy plums or grapes, heirloom or cherry tomatoes or whether they should just get a ton of mushrooms instead, the two of them arguing vehemently over their chosen positions. He misses that more than he misses anything else, all the other parts of their relationship. “I tried that last semester. And you pointed out that if you failed your classes you’d make sure I never got laid again, so I let you be.”

Her lips quirk into something that resembles a smirk. “You've gotten more resourceful.”

He nods. “I have.”

“I’m glad,” she tells him. “You bring me back to myself. Remind me there’s more than my outlines and SCOTUS decisions.”

“Like whether Luca and Isa will ever get their shit together?” Frank chuckles.

“Exactly,” she says with a mocking little eye roll that quickly goes serious. “And you. And this, just being here, _with_ you. The important things.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, breath catching as Laurel lets her lips trail down to his pulse point. “This is the best part of my day. And that's before we get to the telenovela.”

“Yeah,” Laurel echoes, her nails scraping lightly against his hipbones, her smile going crooked, wicked, teasing. “Me too. The couple hours I get with you makes the rest of it worth it.”

“ _You_ make the rest of it worth it,” he tells her fiercely, capturing her lips in a long, long kiss.

“Hopefully not just for my telenovela connection,” she smirks.

“Well,” Frank allows giving her a teasing grin. “That does help, but you're better than any TV show. I wouldn't bother without you there.”

“Even if it meant you could concentrate on the oh so important plot points?”

His hands move to the place at the small of her back he knows she’s most sensitive, ghosting over the skin there until she shudders. “Half the time I’m just watching your face,” he admits. “You've got a terrible TV poker face.”

Laurel frowns and tugs at his tie, mouth pressing together in a thin line and he worries for a moment that he's said something wrong.

“It's perfect,” he assures her adamantly. And it is, Laurel’s mouth is constantly moving; into a smile, a frown, a tight pressed line; eyebrows quirking and pulling together and her eyes dancing, always dancing. He loves watching her expressions shift and change, loves watching the way she takes it all in, devouring the images. It's so simple, and yet, it's not. It's never been simple with them. “You're perfect. If I wasn't in love with you already, watching you watch TV would do it.”

“You said that about me studying too,” Laurel points out and something in her eyes turns to suspicion, a slight narrowing in her gaze like she doesn't quite believe him, can't quite believe him. It makes a familiar hollow ache bloom tight and stiff in his chest. He’s never going to stop loving her, but he hopes some day she really starts believing him.

He nods, meets her eyes, blue on blue, until something softens in them, and her mouth quirks into the quick blossoming of a smile. “I’m constantly falling in love with you,” he tells her. “I don't think I’ve ever stopped falling. I don't think I ever want to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Work and chapter titles come from the Talking Heads song "This Must Be the Place"


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